Buenos (costa rica part one)

My mom used to say that my way of dealing with things was avoidance. And while I vehemently disagreed with her at the time (and now don’t think it’s applicable anymore), I have fallen back to my old habits. Because I don’t want to tell you about Costa Rica. Because that means it’s over. And if Costa Rica is over, my whole five glorious weeks of travel are finished. And I am stuck in New York without a job or plane tickets, left to debate whether I should wear tights under my jeans because it’s getting cold. And to think not long ago I was in a swimsuit, marveling at how many freckles I was accumulating.

But I can’t not talk about ziplining through a forest and hiking to a waterfall and how I apparently do not cut vegetables fast enough. So I will deal with reality for just a little while, just so I can share my stories with you.

(view from my plane going to Costa Rica)

The final leg of my amazing trip was eight days in Costa Rica with one of my best friends, Matt (the trip was originally nine days, but I accidentally missed my flight). If I was telling this story in person, I would pause and make him tell the part about how we know each other, because it makes me laugh. He’d say that we went to high school together and have known each other for 10 years, but we didn’t become friends until college (when we worked on the yearbook together. Did you even know that colleges still had yearbooks?). My story would say that we met and became friends my freshman year of college, but once in high school he said something sassy to me. Something he conveniently doesn’t remember. He’s lived abroad for four years and has been traveling around South and Central America for the past six months. Before I’d even been laid off, I’d been telling people that should layoffs at work happen again, I wanted to meet up with Matt. And somehow it magically worked out that he’d be in a location that I could fly to with my Jet Blue pass. I love when the Universe is nice to me.

When Matt picked me up at the airport, all I knew was that we’d be staying the night in San Jose, but our plans for the rest of the trip were up in the air. No reservations. No bus tickets. No itinerary. Six months ago I would’ve been freaking out about this, but after showing up to a hostel that didn’t exist and missing a flight, I knew I’d be fine, not to mention Matt speaks Spanish, which makes a huge difference (lest I remind you of my Santo Domingo experience).

After lunch, we grabbed coffee and ran into a friend he’d met traveling. She told us about a free film festival. The movie was supposed to have subtitles, which it did, but they turned out to be in Spanish. So I had no clue what was going on. The quality wasn’t too great either, which resulted in Matt and his friend (a native Spanish speaker) not understanding what was going on either. All I remember is lots of boob shots, some midgets and a small child wandering around with a shotgun. Other than that, who knows.

What I wasn’t expecting was San Jose’s overwhelming number of incredibly persistent beggar children. The city felt a little familiar to me, like a more modernized, tourist-friendly version of Santo Domingo. Even though the Dominican Republic isn’t as well off as Costa Rica, I never had people pestering me for money, and I was even traveling alone. One night in an ice cream shop, Matt turned down a boy asking for money. The boy then started talking to me (because that’s a brilliant back-up plan). I kept shaking my head and saying no, Matt sternly told him in Spanish to get the hell outta there, and the ice cream employees (who were oddly dressed like nurses) called for security because he wouldn’t leave us alone. This kind of encounter probably happened to us at least six other times. And we barely spent any time in San Jose. Because the next day we left in search of waterfalls.

No hablo espanol. Hay caramba.

Going into the Dominican Republic, I admitted that I had no idea what I was going to do there. Or why I was going, really. I wanted to visit some places outside the U.S., and the flights fit my schedule, and that’s all that mattered. Part of me thinks maybe this logic was a bad idea. At least for someone whose Spanish is, oh, laughable. And for someone who is pale and non-Hispanic looking, relying on a fake wedding ring to fend off cat calls (this attempt was also laughable, and the ring left a classy green band around my finger).

The entire flight to Santo Domingo, the rest of the passengers spoke as though they were long lost friends — friends who couldn’t stop talking because of everything they had to catch up on. And it was all said passionately. With hand gestures and body movements. This didn’t so much aid in taking a nap to supplement my five hours of sleep when my seatmate kept knocking into me and talking louder than my iPod.

I was staying in the Colonial Zone, so my hotel was just two blocks from Conde Street, which is pedestrian-only traffic and filled with shops, food and lots of culture. Once I was settled in (after first being told they didn’t have my reservation, then being escorted to an ATM by an employee because I got lost finding it on my own), I explored the area.

(More photos from Santo Domingo are here.)
Even though I had a map (from a tourist magazine at the hotel) with recommendations of things to do, I just wandered down the streets, admiring the buildings, colors and history (I also sweat more than I have in my entire life. I honestly think 98 percent of the liquids in my body became sweat that soaked my clothes). I explored the area on foot because transportation, of any kind, nearly gave me a heart attack. After riding in a taxi from the airport, I learned that lanes aren’t so much solid guides as suggestions that you shouldn’t feel restrained by. Want to drive in the middle of two lanes? Well, go right ahead! Don’t feel like stopping at an intersection and would just rather honk your horn a couple times? OK, brilliant! Want to speed up, then slow down and then swerve in front of another car? What’s stopping you?! It was like a Consumer Reports crash test experiment, minus all the safety precautions and test dummies inside.

And there was NO. WAY. I was going to be the passenger on a motorcycle. It appeared as though the highway had a special side lane for motorcycles, which was nice, but the vehicles didn’t look at all sturdy or safe. Helmets weren’t included with your fare, either (and the helmets that some drivers wore didn’t look all that protective either). I can’t even order ice cream, so there’s no way I’d chance doing something that could leave me in a hospital, mumbling about “Los Estados Unidos” and “el aeropuerto,” occasionally bursting out “HAY CARAMBA!” or “Para el amor de Jesucristo.” (“OH NO!” and “For the love of Jesus Christ.” Phrases I likely picked up in high school Spanish watching soap operas.)

After seeing the buses go by — more like minivans, some without doors — with people squished inside or flailing off the side, I knew it’d be better to rely on my Birkenstocks (which, sadly, have cracked just a month after I bought them). Not to mention there wasn’t a bus route map — there was an end destination and you just shout out when you want to get off. I knew I’d probably have a panic attack if I ventured onto one, never able to correctly shout where or when I wanted to get off, never sure where I was or how to get back where I started.

Transportation in general was just chaotic. Pedestrians didn’t have so much the right of way as the right to run — across streets and highways whenever there was a break in traffic (or whenever they felt tired of waiting). People darted across the highway to an unmarked spot, where I can only assume a bus or something was going to stop. I’m sure there was a method to it all, but it was certainly way beyond my comprehension.

On my way back to the airport, I thought I was going to die multiple times. My driver didn’t speak English, but if I translated correctly, he said they all drive very fast there (right as a motorbike swerved to avoid hitting my side as he ran through an intersection). I’m not sure he stopped at all during the drive, except to drop me off (and we went through residential areas with stops signs and traffic). The windows of his Honda (circa 1986) were rolled down to the point that my hair whipped across my face. My seatbelt didn’t work.

My favorite part of the visit was when I walked down Conde Street in the evening, after everyone was off work. People congregate on the benches, and as you walked down the strip you could hear people playing music. Groups of men were clustered every few blocks, beating drums and shaking maracas, singing words I couldn’t understand. One woman stood outside her shop, shaking her booty to the music as two men, quite blatantly, stared at her round ass. This scene seemed to capture the essence of the city — noisy, interactive, colorful. From my hotel room I could hear dogs down the block barking, people gathering on the back patio for dinner and conversations on the stairway. For some reason, none of it bothered me like it normally would in the US. Maybe it’s because I couldn’t understand what they were saying.

Where Aruba felt too much like a tourist-only destination with no real feel for the country, Santo Domingo was the opposite. Most of the places I walked, I was the only tourist around. Few people spoke English. I was able to really see and experience the city, how people actually live instead of a fantasy bubble (I’m not knocking Aruba — I’m just realizing the types of places I like to visit). I often felt confused and worried about my safety in Santo Domingo, but I wouldn’t trade this trip for another location. I needed to be somewhere where people wouldn’t cater to me in English. Where the hotel was basic, if run down. Where I had to use bottled water to brush my teeth. Where I had to leave my key in a special slot in order to have electricity (therefore preventing the electricity from being on while you’re out of the room). Then were the three times when the electricity actually WENT OUT — one of those times I was already at the airport. A man at Hudson News got out a flashlight to grab a bottled water from the fridge. I immediately wondered if mass chaos would ensue. A few minutes later, everything was back to normal, my imagination back in check.

While I felt out of my comfort zone the majority of my time in Santo Domingo (more because I couldn’t communicate and was unfamiliar with the area), the perspective I gained was exactly what I needed. I may not have toured all sites or explored the entire city, but I learned a lot about myself, which made getting lost and feeling out of place worth it.